Twelve

How many of you are inside my head? Each front substitutes a social toolkit, Aware what I pick, I might have misread My gut is right—most times permit— though the margin of error colors me a hypocrite.

You look like a joking man, I'll use Four, One moment please, it's far back in the queue, Is this mask pretty enough not to bore? This one is fragile and will dry like glue But I'll keep it a little longer just for you

Number nine is who most people prefer Her lips are porcelain and crack when she speaks No problem, silence is her demeanor Number Twelve hates her. (He's quite full of cheek— I rarely seek him out for fear of the word "freak.")

Just for my friends I engineered Seven Ten drains me like I am a battery For my parents, I crafted Eleven Three and Five make their way with flattery One and Two watch my words for social strategy.

And just once a day, when no one's around, In the small moment before dreaming starts, I see a face of gold and green and brown; A mosaic of familiar parts, I know they'll never look at beautiful apart.

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